Though My Soul May Set In Darkness (It Will Rise In Perfect Light)
by Windy Darlington
Summary: For a time (a very long time) he slithered about in the shadows, even when he thought he dallied in the light. He lied, cheated, and deceived (and did all those things to himself, never noticing because he never tried), thinking himself clever. Now, however, he can understand the difference between light and dark, and he chose that trembling shaft beaming down on shorn golden hair.


_'Though my soul may set in darkness_ ,  
 _It will rise in perfect light,  
For I have loved the stars too fondly,  
_ _To be fearful of the night.'_

– _The Old Astronomer –_

It felt weak, and shoddy, and ill-fashioned.

Somehow in the moment his words (however brazenly bold they had sounded) seemed less meaningful than how he had intended them to be; like all good intentions done by children, however so pure and innocent when they are formed, feel less so once they have been done—like a naif plea for accolades or praise.

But then, he had always been childish in that aspect of his nature, (it had always been his way, to feel he must search and locate praise, it was, indeed, his very character to hunger after notice) and he had no time to renounce it now.

 _For you, always for you._

He glanced at Thor, and might have smiled (as he always had done when in their youth before he performed some canny trick upon their foes) but there was no time for that now.

It had a sense of poetic irony, he felt, that no matter how desperately—with great force and such violence—he eternally struggled to wrench himself apart from the mighty Thor (to be his own light because he craved to be noticed for himself and not as part of another) he always came back… In a redundant circle, habitating the shadows he tried so hard to remove himself from, and destroying himself for his brother (who was good and, though rough, but better meaning than he could ever be; and he could be truthful, without need for words and pretty speeches)….

Because mother had been right.

They were _**family**_.

And now, here at the end, the color of blood didn't really matter.

He felt a gnawing, sort of hollowed out peace. Was this how it felt to die for something truly good? To have lain all your stakes upon someone you knew would surely outlast you for better? Did mother feel this way when…

But he did not go that far, time did not allow for further rumination.

There was only death, and flickers of pain.

He scrapped and scratched, even though he knew it would do no good—it had done no good when he'd been plucked up the selfsame way nearly a decade ago from a pitch-black rock in the midst of the velvety Void. But the illusion of being able to offer a challenge was ever-present and too alluring to ignore.

Dying was not like blowing out candles, or closing one's eyes.

Dying was not a flicker of pain and then nothing more.

Dying… was more like taking sand up from the shore, and closing it in your fingers to let it press out slowly from the hollow of your fist to fall back to the sand. The grains moved at their own pace, and such a pace was everything but hasty. Which would be the last second to drop back to join its brethren, who could tell?

Thoughts ran mad, life—living, because what creature in all its strength and pride did not wish to fight death?—made his fingers gouge and claw until he could not feel them; legs kick even though there would be no reason for it in a moment, maybe more.

But then, the world ceased the frenzy life provided as death loomed larger and more present, and one thought came clearly in the haze, as the dark lake he found himself falling toward came nearer and nearer (such dark, cool, _**welcoming**_ , water that would not shock as it flowed smoothly over his head once he broke through it still surface)—

"You, will _**never**_ _,_ be a god."

An idiotic thought, really, considering just how much _**godlike**_ strength it was taking, surely, to break his very much _**un**_ -Asgardian neck. But it rang true, and like all beautiful yet insane moments of clarity, reminded him of a lack of conviction he felt he no longer had.

Oh, yes, he was convinced.

 _Undying_ _fidelity_.

He could be nothing now if not brimming with conviction.

Because now, unlike then… he did not feel any fear.

He might have smiled, had he the life left to do it, but, like all else before it, there was no time.

Time, for Loki Laufeyson, had finally sifted to the bottom of the glass, back to join its brethren.

Yet he felt utterly that he had not failed, but rightly won.

Oh, _**yes**_.

 _Undying_ _fidelity_.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I could have made this longer (in fact, I was _going_ to make it longer) _buuuuut,_ given that Avengers 4 comes out next year and we none of us have any _idea_ where that film could go (or if Loki shows back up alive and kicking), I decided to leave this as it is. But when Avengers 4 rolls out and I go see it, if Loki does indeed remain dead then I will go ahead next year and add to this fanfic an afterlife scene with Frigga and Loki being reunited in Valhalla, complete with an emotional scene. **

**For the record, I really hope Loki _remains_ dead; as terrible as that sounds. I'm probably (I feel fairly certain) the ONLY Loki-fan who thinks this way. I have many reasons for wanting this death to be permanent. Namely because Loki's character arc has _finally_ finished in a beautiful way; even if his death was NOT the sort of death I wanted it to be and it felt weak, along with several lines of his dialogue. I love Loki, very much, and it's because I love him that I say he needs death; he needs peac;, to at last, _finally,_ rest and not have to think about the next five backup plans. Not to mention that it seems fitting, in a way, that he died trying to protect someone, just like Frigga died (even going down to dying in a situation that pertains to an Infinity Stone) to protect someone. **

**Anyway, do tell me your opinions, I love to chat about Loki!**

 **WH**


End file.
